It’s a ringing to drown a moan, then at that other door, but which, too many — there’s a knock, knocked sharp and mean. And not at the side or porch, but at the front, which is never and peculiar, and so leaving the handle and the end of that hall, its door down toward the garage, Ben makes to answer through the kitchen, around its unperturbed workers, the long way, the touristic, scenic route…He can’t bear this gettingbearings, but its freedoms are intriguing. Nothing much has changed, though: His house had always been a switchboard, the nexus of all calling. Always strangers getting in touch, checking up and catching. I’m here to install, I’m here to fix, I’m here. Though Ben had only known it for a week, it’s His, this kitchen He’s wandering through, His mother’s Hanna’s open to disarray, the innards of each drawer spilled, exposed if meticulously — scandalous, that there’s nothing much to hide…a quick ragging, a rash of appropriate towel. It feels almost too — what, an excess perfected, of what even the most attentive maternal might accomplish, almost an onscreen test kitchen, like up on the television, now again set high above the livingroom, the den, without signal. I’m here to hook up, I’m here to put you online, I’m not sure why I’m here. Dingdong cable babble. A store display of home appliances, it retails as, and so to make it home again He passes His hands over it, the formica just wet from sponging — sponged by the same brand used exclusively in the Israelien household, endorsed posthumously by Hanna, only ten shekels, and only at Wiltinghills. Then the cabinets, opposite the counters milk, opposite the counters meat, with the middle mediating digestion of the pareve prep marble, once again stocked with sticky wicks with candles at their melt, the spices to the right and left, the Kiddush of the cups — the fourteen of them then the fifteenth, His, to’ve been gifted to Ben though only after that pleonast procedure, graillike lost the bris. As if to say, thanks for letting us cut you kid, here’s a cup for your troubles, as silver as money…a yarmulke, don’t wear it all out in one place — you’re good people, you’re golden, let’s do this again. Arranged as if never moved upon their wedding present tray: the large cup hath His father, His mother’s lesser cup, which’d both come with the set, initialed, dated, then the twelve ones in declining size of His older sisters; guests had drunk their Kiddush from ordinary glasses, impressively fluted within the cabinet next. Israel, he’d make the prayer — would bless the bushels crushed, drink then pour out the wine to His mother, and only then to the cups of His sisters, who’d argue about who’d get poured first, would ambush their father with viney whines, but first was always Hanna; they all wanted the wine that’d touched his lips, needed the exact liquid that’d tasted mouth and then receded, Aba, kvetching with such determination it’d been difficult to second guess, or twelfth.
In reflection, He goes to take His from the shelf, the smallest of them all at rest upon the highest. Just about to reach, there’s again that announcing flurry, a ring of fingers many and funning: dingdong the knockknock of a little fisty joke.
Ben makes His way from the kitchen, past the dishwasher running bum chug and warm, the dryingracks, then the toaster and the breadbin; ignoring the workers as they’re ignoring Him, as they’ve been ordered, not to speak, avert their eyes and mouth — how they’re behind schedule, everything took longer than expected, the plumbing, the wiring, you’re not the only one with problems. Him to stop, too, alongside the pantry, which is having its door hinged on screws gone stripped to nails: with Him old enough already to have favorites, they’re all already stocked, cereal flakes sogproofed, puffed rice and sugared wheat boxed nicely neat, nutritious; a worker’s hauling in the fridge, the upstairs unit, with another following him with two troughs of what was in it, should be still; photographs depicting their arrangements on the shelves mounted due diligence in an album lying open on the stovetop. Milk went bad. And so to mother another carton one percent. He makes His way around the recessed table: salt, pepper, then the holder which sister — Isa, Asa — had made for napkins, baked from the clay from which we all are formed: a worker walks over, around Him, and unobtrusively grabs a handful from a bag, arranges them white and fanned as Ben turns into the hall to the front, finally opens the door unlocked.
The alarm’s been reinstalled but not yet set.
